Chapter 10
Sebastian watched her close the door behind her, skirts whispering across the carpet. She looked like she was deciding whether to sit or flee. He lifted his glass. “You do realize,” he said dryly, “you have an unfortunate habit of finding me in libraries.”
Margaret crossed her arms lightly, the flicker of a frown crossing her face. “And you have an unfortunate habit of hiding in them.”
He tipped his head, conceding that. “A man needs somewhere to breathe.”
“Most men choose a club,” she shot back. “Or a bottle.”
He lifted his glass an inch. “I’ve the bottle covered, thank you. And as for the club, I am, after all, abiding by the rules you set.”
“Rules you’ve already tried to twist,” she countered.
“Twist? I’ve done nothing but honor them. Look at me, minding my own business, keeping a respectable distance, behaving as though I were a model of restraint.”
She gave a short laugh. “If this is restraint, Heaven help us when you decide to misbehave.”
His mouth tipped into a grin. “Ah, but that would require you to amend the rules, and I wouldn’t dare presume.”
Her brow arched. “You make it sound as though I handed down commandments.”
“You did,” he said, mock-solemn, eyes glinting over the rim of his glass. “Chapter and verse. No gambling, no taverns, no midnight scandals.”
“Rules any sensible man ought not need reminding of,” she retorted.
“Ah, but I am not sensible,” he returned, leaning back with deliberate ease. “I am dutiful. Entirely at your mercy.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth to it that he hadn’t seen in her at the chapel or the carriage. He found he liked it enough that a strange little thought nudged him to keep it going.
He saw her look at the door, then back at him, and the memory of that wretched locked door between them flickered up. Before she could speak, he cut in. “If you’re worried, the door’s not locked this time.”
Margaret snorted softly, a sound he’d never expected from her lips. “A pity. Another scandal might’ve freed me altogether.”
“Careful,” Sebastian said, mouth curving. “You might give me ideas.”
Margaret hesitated in the doorway, fingers skimming the polished wood as if testing whether it might shut her out again.
“A library does have doors, Your Grace,” she said lightly, voice edged with a memory he half-wished she’d forget.
He tilted his head. “A door you’re quite fond of trespassing through.”
She raised her brows, stepping inside at last. “Not locked, I trust?”
He let his grin tilt just enough to show the teeth behind the polish. “Not tonight. Unless you beg me to bolt it.”
Margaret’s eyes flicked to the hearth, to his glass half-full with whatever he’d poured to keep the thoughts at bay.
“I think you rather enjoy it,” she said, almost to herself. “The pretending to hide when you want to be found.”
That caught him. The truth of it, careless and too near the bone. He shifted his glass to the mantel, buying a breath.
“And if I did?” he asked, careless on the surface but too watchful underneath. “What would my ghostly trespasser do then?”
She tilted her chin, a flash of boldness cutting through the weariness in her shoulders. “Haunt you properly, I suppose. Smash your bottle, scatter your dusty books, keep you awake at all hours.”
He barked a soft laugh, honest and unguarded. “God help me, you’d do it, too.”
Margaret’s mouth curved. “Perhaps I would.”
Something flickered in his chest, something dangerously warm.
They stood there for a heartbeat, the silence not so sharp now. He studied her face—the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her hair curled stubbornly at her nape despite how neat she always tried to look. A woman with edges, not painted-on softness. He found he liked it.
He set the glass down, rising to meet her. “If you’re going to insist on haunting my libraries, you’ll have to earn your keep.”
Margaret raised a brow. “Haunting? First a madwoman, now a ghost. Lovely.”
Sebastian barked a laugh, a short, sharp sound that startled her. “Forgive me. A ghost with impeccable timing, then.”
She shook her head. “What exactly do you expect me to do in your precious library? Catalogue your scandalous books?”
“Oh, God, no. They’re barely worth cataloguing.” He turned, spotting the old chessboard on the side table near the window, the one he used to play when he wanted to pretend he had better things to do than brood. An idea sparked. He gestured to it, careless, playful. “Sit. Play me.”
He gave her his most roguish grin, the one that made harmless debutantes run breathless to their mamas. “Unless you’d rather discuss locked doors and rumpled dresses all night.”
Her cheeks went pink, but she didn’t flinch. “Perhaps I would.”
Sebastian laughed again. “God, you’re dangerous.”
She sniffed. “You have no idea.”
“Sit down, Duchess,” he said, dragging a chair out with his boot. “One game. To test if you’re clever enough to haunt my library.”
Sebastian caught her glance at the mantel clock, the brass hands creeping past midnight. He knew that look, the good sense telling her to leave him to his drink and this cavernous house.
But instead, Margaret tipped her head, voice low. “It’s late, Your Grace.”
He lifted one brow, mouth quirking. “You’re already here, Duchess. Might as well make your trespass worth it.”
Margaret huffed, but she moved closer. “One game.”
“One game,” he agreed.
She folded into the opposite chair, skirts spilling neatly around the legs. “And if I win?”
He settled across from her, knuckles braced on the table edge. “If you win, you can make one new rule. Any rule. I’ll honor it.”
“And if you win?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
Sebastian’s mouth twitched. “Then you admit I’m not entirely insufferable.”
She hummed, arranging her pawns. “A tragic lie.”
He watched her fingers hover over the edge of the board and how carefully she touched the rook, lining it up as if the whole outcome depended on this single piece.
“Fair odds, Duchess,” he said, matching her pieces with lazy precision. “Now hush. It’s my opening.”
They moved through the first plays—half-serious, half-spiteful. When she nearly cornered his bishop, he leaned back, feigning shock. “You’ve done this before.”
Margaret flicked a pawn free with her fingertip. “My uncle taught me. He thought it would keep me quiet.”
“Did it?”
“Never.”
Sebastian huffed a laugh. “Good.”
The first few moves were quiet, mechanical. Then he saw the spark when she trapped one of his bishops, the sly curl of her mouth she tried to hide behind her hair. Sebastian leaned back, tapping a finger against the edge of the board. “Remind me to never play cards with you.”
She flicked him a look, all faux sweetness. “Oh, I cheat terribly at cards.”
Their banter bounced like a small fire between them. She teased him when he muttered under his breath after losing a rook. He called her tactics fiendish when she trapped his queen. Her laugh, sharp and soft all at once, loosened something in his ribs that he hadn’t realized was locked tight.
When he leaned forward to slide his knight, their knuckles brushed, causing a spark neither of them named. She didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. The library felt smaller suddenly, more alive than it had in months.
Margaret tilted her head, studying the board. “You’re not very good at this.”
Sebastian made a wounded noise. “I’m an excellent strategist. Ask Parliament.”
She snorted. “Are you trying to bore me into checkmate, Your Grace?”
He pointed his knight at her king. “Hardly. Look alive, Duchess.”
They went on like that, two people who had no business laughing in each other’s company, laughing anyway. By the time she cornered his king, his grin had slipped past polite and settled into something real. Easy.
Sebastian leaned back, flicking his fingers at her victorious pieces. “I yield.”
Margaret sat back too, her smile a flash of teeth. “Rule time, Your Grace.”
He raised both brows. “Go on, then. Make it dreadful.”
She leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “Every meal. You’ll dine in the hall. With me. No libraries. No excuses.”
Sebastian let out a final laugh, too loud for the quiet of the library. “God help me! Checkmate indeed.”
Margaret woke with her scream caught in her throat, pulse hammering in the soft dark.
The remnants of fire clung to her eyes; the hiss of smoke merged with the press of heat under her skin.
She lay still, pressing her palm to her ribs until the sharp edges of the dream dulled enough to breathe around.
It was always the same: the fire, the hand, the crackle at her ear that never fully went quiet. She counted the seconds until her pulse slowed, until she could swallow the acid behind her teeth.
When she pushed herself upright, the faint light creeping past the drapes looked almost kind—almost. She wished it felt like safety.
Margaret pressed her wrist to her temple, forcing the tremble back into her bones. No more noise. Not now. She prayed no one had heard her in the night.
When the knock came, Margaret flinched as if she’d been caught. The door cracked open, spilling a slant of pale dawn across the carpet. Jenny stepped through, arms full of fresh linen, a basket hooked neatly over one wrist.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” The girl bobbed a quick curtsey, voice pitched just too soft to echo. She kept her eyes on the hearth as she crossed to the dressing stand, fussing with the folded linen like someone might scold her if she dared look up.
Margaret watched her, searching for any hint that the walls had betrayed her secrets in the night—the scream, the ragged breathing, the muffled sob she’d crushed into the pillow.
Jenny’s hands fluttered once over the clean chemises, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. When she finally risked a glance at Margaret’s face, her polite smile slipped sideways, not quite reaching her eyes.
“Will Your Grace dress now? I’ve brought your dove-gray as Mrs. Fowler thought it might suit the morning’s calls.”
Margaret’s fingers twisted in the counterpane, knuckles white. She forced a nod, too slow to feel like a habit.
“Yes, Jenny. Thank you. That will do nicely.”
Jenny’s answering “Yes, ma’am” was as careful as footsteps over glass, and her eyes dropped to her task again, and that small mercy told Margaret enough—that the house had listened, even if no one would say so.
She dressed slowly, fumbling the buttons twice before she let Jenny finish them for her. The room smelled of polish and lemon oil, bright and cold and new in ways that made her throat ache.
A moment later, another softer knock, and a second maid slipped in behind Jenny.
This one was young with freckles dusted across her nose, eyes darting up just once before she dropped her gaze.
She held a small tray close to her apron.
On it sat a single porcelain cup, steam rising in gentle spirals.
“Mrs. Fowler sent this up, Your Grace, to calm you if you have the mind for it,” she murmured. She offered the tray with both hands, careful not to clink the porcelain.
Margaret looked at the cup of pale tea: a wisp of lavender and a curl of steam that smelled faintly of chamomile.
She lifted the cup with steady hands. “Thank you, Mary. Tell Mrs. Fowler, I’m obliged.”
Mary bobbed a quick curtsey, relief flickering in her wide eyes, and stepped back. Jenny busied herself at the wardrobe, careful not to glance at the tea or at Margaret for longer than courtesy demanded.
Margaret sipped once, the warmth catching at the raw edges of her throat.
In the breakfast room, the morning sun spilled across the long table with enough gleam to make the silverware look sharper than necessary.
The breakfast room felt too large for one table. Sebastian sat alone at the far end, his back straight, paper in hand, a cup of coffee steaming at his elbow.
Margaret paused at the threshold, smoothing her gloves against her skirt. She made her steps slow, deliberate—a duchess’ steps, not a frightened girl’s. When she took her seat opposite him, the chair’s faint scrape on the marble startled her more than she’d admit.
For a moment, she just watched him over the rim of her teacup. His dark hair bent toward the paper, his mouth unreadable, his eyes hidden as if he were the only soul in the room.
Did he hear? The question clanged in her ribs.
Margaret cleared her throat. “It’s a fine morning,” she said, light as she could make it.
No reply. He turned a page neatly, the crisp rustle louder than her words.
She glanced at her untouched porridge. Tried again. “A bit cold for June, though. Colder than this table at least.”
Nothing. The corner of his mouth didn’t even twitch. He lifted his cup, sipped once, and flipped the pages of the paper with precise care.
Margaret traced her spoon’s edge along the porcelain bowl. Say something. Anything. But he didn’t.
Her spoon dipped once into the porridge. Bland. Cold. She forced it down anyway, two mouthfuls before the taste turned to ash.
Margaret tried once more, voice careful, almost wry. “Do you always read the newspaper cover to cover, or is it just to avoid conversation with your wife?”
This time, a flicker crossed his face, his fingers paused at the edge of the paper, but he didn’t lift his head. He folded the page neatly and finished his tea in three measured sips.
His eyes, green and distant, unreadable as ever, lifted just enough to meet hers, not quite at her face but somewhere over her shoulder, polite as marble. Then they dropped to the paper again, dismissing her question like another headline not worth the ink.
He set the cup down with the soft click of finality. “I have business in the study.”
Margaret managed a nod. “Of course. Of course, you do.”
He left without a backward glance, the door sighing shut behind him.
Alone, Margaret stirred the porridge once, watching the steam vanish into the draft. Her pulse thudded in her throat. He knows. And maybe now he believed the worst of what they whispered.
He thinks I’m mad. The words settled heavy as lead under her ribs. Mad and not worth the trouble.
Margaret rose, hands smoothing her skirts. She caught her reflection faintly in the polished sideboard, the new Duchess of Ravenscourt, chin lifted, eyes too bright for dignity.
She let out one thin breath through her nose. So be it.
And with careful steps, she turned from the lonely table and walked back into the cavernous space of her new house, willing her spine to stay straight all the way to the door.